Steele Harry
This reposting is for SusanRS, who asked so nicely. Thank you for your lovely review of "Steele in Love with You"—I'm glad you enjoyed it; I had fun writing it.
I took this story off originally because I was afraid I hadn't captured Harry's full character, but then that's the beauty of Harry, isn't it? You never really know. So here's a thought on one of his many facets. Here's to Harry.
This vignette takes place during "Tempered Steele," but the case has little bearing here.
Disclaimer: I do not own Remington Steele, but don't rub it in...
"Harry."
His heart skipped a beat and his stomach sank right to the tip of his toes before lurching violently back into place. It hadn't been too long since he was called Harry. He could feel the tingle crawling tantalizingly up his spine—the way it did every time a safe clicked open under his delicate touch—the way it did when whatever con he was working veered just short of the brink of disaster. Harry was Daniel's name for him—the name of the con—a name bestowed with affection and laced with the alluring promise of delightfully illicit activities.
"Harry," she said again, trying it on for size.
He was a man with no name, but Harry came awfully close to the mark. Too close—far too close. Harry was the name of a thief and a con artist and Daniel's pupil. Harry didn't fight his way around South America, scrounge the streets of Dublin, or pickpocket along the soggy River Thames. Harry didn't simply survive; he thrived. With style. In formal parlors, ballrooms, and museums across Europe, Harry entertained himself—stealing for luxury instead of life. Harry was the name of his best self—not his better self, who, he was beginning to suspect, was Remington Steele—but his best. The self that drank champagne in Monte Carlo and ate caviar in Paris and filet mignon in London. He changed names more often than shirts, but it was Harry changing names—Harry pretending to be someone else. Harry was the toast of Europe, if only it had known it should be so lucky.
Harry was the closest he'd come to who he wanted to be. A man of means and distinction whose identity didn't change with the hour. One created with the assistance of Daniel, the closest thing to a father figure available. Harry was one of his few constants on this Earth.
And she'd picked it right out of thin air.
He stared ahead, barely breathing. How well did she know him?
How well did he want her to?
She shrugged and looked away. "Tonight you look like a Harry."
Just a little ramble through the early Steele psyche. Hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, let me know by—wait for it—Reviewing!